


Return to Sender

by spirrum



Series: This Long Road [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, King and Warden Queen origin, coping by way of extensive letter writing and humour, grief and longing, spoilers for the Hero of Ferelden plotline in Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her absence, he writes her letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to Sender

_'My love,_

_You've left. I don't know where, but then that was your intention, wasn't it? But don't worry – I won't ask why. I know you must have a good reason, so I'll just say this:_

_Come back soon._

_Yours always,_

_A.'_

He sends them to Weisshaupt, to Amaranthine and other Warden outposts she might pass through. They're not sealed with the royal stamp but a nonedescript one, the motif a single rose. But she'll know it for what it is, he tells himself into the dark hours of the night, one side of the bed left empty and with only his thoughts for company ( _but she'll know, she'll know, of course she will, why wouldn't she?_ )

A week passes, then another. Then a month, two, three. A year. Two years. He loses count. The world brims with unease, breaks, the sky ripping like scissors through cloth. He watches the tear they call the Breach from the windows of his bedchamber, and wonders if she can see it, too.

He still writes her letters. 

_'So, the sky is tearing apart. Wonderful. I'd rather it wasn't in my kingdom, but I guess these kinds of things are out of my hands. They're rallying people to deal with this...whatever it is. They're calling themselves the 'Inquisition'. Sounds rather ominous if you ask me, but they get things done, I'll give them that. I don't suppose you've come across them? I hear Leliana's traded her place by the Sunburst Throne to pull her strings for them. Sounds like something you'd like to hear about, I know you two were close._

_Yours,_

_A.'_

Another month passes, and he sends more letters – semi-cheerful recounts of courtly life to which he recieves no answer.

_'The Inquisiton has arranged for peace talks with Empress Celene. I owe you a sov for that, I was sure she'd never want to be seen in the same room as me for fear she'd come away smelling like wet dog. Like there's nothing more to Ferelden than mud and mabari! (don't laugh, you know there is)_

_Anyway, I wish you were here to deal with them. I can't stand pompous Orlesians._

~~_I miss you. I love you._ ~~ ~~_Come back_ ~~

_A.'_

Another year goes by, the sky closes and the Inquisition triumphs, and he writes of their victory. It's a short account, and – as he's come to expect by now ( _so many years, so many letters_ ) – there's no answer, but wherever she is she must have heard the news. Her continued absence tells him that whatever her mission, it's had nothing to do with the Inquisition, and that she's no doubt still busy ( _he thinks of another alternative, but oh it's a dark thing, a cruel thing, and he can't bring himself to invoke the name of Death, he can't, he won't_ ). Denerim celebrates, but his cheer does not come easily now, and as his smiles grow shorter, so do the letters. 

 _'Lomell planted roses in the gardens today. You'd like them, ~~they remind me of you.~~  They're very pretty.' _ _  
_

Some days he feels her absence keenly  _(everything is too bright, too sharp, too much)_ , and he spends hours by his desk, shaking fingers stained with ink and a single page before him.

~~_'I love you. I miss you. Please, please come back.'_ ~~

Other days  _(most days now, with the sky grey like her eyes and he's so, so **tired** ),_ all he writes are two words, over and over. One letter, two, three, a whole stack of scribbled notes bearing the two words he keeps tucked behind his heart ( _because what else is there left for him to say now?_ ).

_'Be safe.'_

He wonders how many years it will take before he stops writing. 


End file.
